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She tapped on the contract. “Not only that, but there’s a non-compete clause. You can’t open a new bakery for ten years. There’s also a brutal non-disclosure contract. You can’t tell anyone who else is involved, that they’re not using your recipe or anything else about these so-called investors. Nothing about them personally or even the company name. You have to claim they’re using your recipes and you can’t say anything that’s uncomplimentary.”
Sam scowled. “I talked with Wiz. TriWestCo is a shell company with dozens of layers above and below. The guy who visited you goes by John Scott, and he’s a known organized crime associate, both in the US and overseas. He arranges money laundering. Wiz is digging into his background, because she’s pretty sure there’s even more to this guy than it seems. But for now, TriWestCo will contract with some huge commercial bakery and bake mass market crap with substandard ingredients, but they claim it’s your special recipe and you have to back them up. You’ll probably make some money, but they’ll be making a whole lot more and hiding the profits from trafficking people, guns, and drugs. Don’t sign it.” She sipped her tea.
“No kidding.” Deb shuddered. She didn’t want anything to do with that man, his contract or his dirty business.
“Wiz believes his offer of protection is a scam, too. He’s the one threatening you, forcing you to accept his assistance; reason number five hundred and fifty-five not to accept the contract. She thinks he’s hitting a lot of the small businesses in town with similar offers. We should call a meeting of the Marcus Business Association.”
Deb looked at the ceiling, then back at Sam. “Except, remember who’s in charge?”
Sam’s shoulders drooped. “Yeah, Erin’s mom and she’s involved up to the top of her shiny bright red hair.”
“Yeah.” Deb shuddered, imagining Sharlene’s reaction.
Sam frowned. “Well, I know the majority of the business owners, and I know all the local attorneys. I’ll send a letter to all of them with a ‘look out for this scam’ that keeps the threat generic, so I can’t be accused of libel, but makes it clear I’m talking about what this particular guy is doing.” She sighed. “Wiz said that occasionally, a town gets together and makes it clear they’ll protect their own. Then this guy will move on. But more often, he succeeds with enough businesses that before long, he owns the whole town.”
“That’s terrifying.” She wrapped her arms around her waist.
Sam shivered. “It gets worse. Because once he owns the majority of the businesses, he starts providing workers. He brings in people from around the world, and makes them work long hours for next to nothing. They are given drugs, and become addicts, and if they get injured, because they’re high or sick while they’re working, they simply disappear.” She grimaced, closing her eyes for a moment, then met Deb’s gaze again. “I contacted Trevor.”
Deb put her hand over Sam’s and squeezed. “You know I’d never ask you to do that.” Sam had loved Trevor Mills with every bit of her heart through high school and the first two years of college, even though they’d gone to different schools. She’d dressed in baggy clothes, didn’t wear makeup, turned down every advance, and avoided parties and social events, all so Trevor would know she’d stayed true. According to rumor, he hadn’t done the same, partying hard with his team mates in the athlete’s dorm. And then, after their second-year finals, Trevor texted, telling Sam he’d joined the Navy, was shipping out the next day, and she was free to date other people, because he wasn’t coming back. She’d been devastated and cried for a week. Deb had nursed her through it, bringing compassion, electrolytes, moisturizer, junk food, and tissues.
But after the initial shock, Sam had decided that living outrageously was the best revenge. She worked out, dressed in sexy clothes, dated extensively, refused to go exclusive with anyone, went to every party, and had a blast all summer. She slowed the partying during school, but kept refining her look and attitude, becoming a flirty, unobtainable beauty. Sam’s façade was almost perfect, but Deb knew that even a decade later, the wounds of Trevor’s betrayal remained. “We’ll have a sleep over soon and make voodoo dolls, right?”
Sam snorted. “Not necessary. It was a kid’s crush. I’m better off without him. But Wiz was right. It turns out, Trevor is a big deal in the FBI’s organized crime unit. I had to work my way through several layers of admin assistants before I could talk to him. When I told him what was going on, he confirmed our suspicions. He seemed excited that we were seeing the very start of the process and they’d be able to catch the organization in the act, get real evidence and make the charges stick. He called me the next day, asking lots of questions, and more the next. Then he stopped communicating. He ghosted me.” She glared at the tabletop. “When I called the next week to ask some questions in return, his assistant told me that the Bureau was grateful for my help, but they didn’t need anything else, and to never contact him again. The FBI would handle the case and they didn’t need the assistance of a small-town attorney.” She rolled her eyes. “Typical.”
Trevor was a monumental jerk. If he dared to show his face in Marcus, Deb would kick in his kneecaps. Hurting a lovely person like Sam was the act of a selfish ass. She squeezed Sam’s hand again. “I’m sorry. Some people only change for the worse.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Like I said, I’m better off without him. But more importantly, that reaction tells me he’s not going to do anything, he’s just too much of a coward to tell me. We’re on our own. I don’t think we can trust the Sheriff’s department, or the city. Maybe not the state either. I’m sure Wiz will help us as much as she can. But even with her help, banding together against Marcus Bank will be hard. They own so many loans in town; businesses, mortgages, and personal. I quit advising the bank because they were making really risky loans and bad business decisions. With the information Wiz has dug up, I’d bet my Louboutin stilettos that Sharlene planned the whole thing with this TriWestCo Holdings guy.” She scowled. “I wouldn’t put it past that greedy woman. She’s terrible.”
“She is. Poor Erin.” Deb’s parents were neglectful and lazy, but not actively evil.
Sam shrugged. “Erin’s got Ryan, now, and Wiz, and the Bordes, and us. Better than her mother any day.”
“True, but it doesn’t make dealing with your mother becoming a criminal easier.” Deb’s parents had moved away years ago and rarely contacted either of their daughters, but they hadn’t been reliable from the start. Sharlene hadn’t gone bad until Erin’s dad died, and even then, she hadn’t become a threat until recently. Erin struggled with her conflicted feelings, but Ryan’s steadfast love made dealing with her emotions easier.
Sam stood. “I’ve got to get to my next appointment. Hang in there, Deb. We’ll get through this.”
Deb rose, and hugged Sam tight, then let her go. “Be careful out there, Sam. I don’t like any of this.”
At the doorway, Sam looked back with a sad smile. “I don’t either. I’m carrying mace, and asking Wiz about an alarm system for my house and my office. This could get a whole lot worse before it gets better.” She left the bakery, getting into her shiny red hybrid SUV and driving north.
Deb locked up, finished closing, and cleaned up, scooting upstairs before Michael arrived. She couldn’t take anymore drama today. She made a semi-healthy dinner, had a glass of wine, and unable to stay awake another minute, went to bed an hour early.
Tomorrow had to be better.
In the dead of night, Deb woke, shivering, her hip and shoulder aching. She reached for her phone, but her entire arm hit the floor rather than only her fingertips. The dim light of her phone’s screen saver lightened the gloom. No wonder she was cold—she was on the floor. Her inflatable mattress was flatter than a fallen souffle.
She rolled to her hands and knees, found a fleece jacket and knitted hat, then put water in the microwave for tea. While the water heated, she paced, swinging her arms. Even if she had a patch kit, finding the hole seemed impossible when she was so exhausted. It seemed that everything was going wrong and only getting worse.
At the knock on her door, she spun, her heart pounding.
“Deb, are you okay?” Michael’s bellow was muffled only slightly by the steel door.
Hand over her chest, she unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. Michael scowled with a key in one hand, his gun in the other. She glared. “I’m fine. Just cold. Go back to bed.”
“Why are you cold? Did the heater quit?” He slid the gun into his holster, pushed past her and checked the thermostat, mounted on the short wall leading to the bathroom behind the kitchen. “It’s working.” He turned back, scanning the room. “Your bed is flat. Why haven’t you bought a real mattress yet? I told you I could work around one a week ago.” He glowered.
The microwave dinged, and she turned away, pulling her cup, dunking an herbal tea bag and cupping her frigid hands around the mug. “I haven’t had time. Workers aren’t showing up, so I’m not going to get the time, either.” She held up a hand to stop his objections. “And I can’t afford to close. I need the income.”
